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I can't see. I can't seem to reach far enough with these tiny little arms and hands to grasp the ideas I need to understand this thing about me. This ting I am about. I know the Bejesuts are slashing at me and there is really nothing I can do but hold the line until either they get tired and go away or they make it through the barricade walls and start slashing me in a much more direct way. I have been told for weeks that there was no way they would go that far, yet here they are.
Well the last couple days haven't been that hot and that always sends me scurrying for the dials and gizmos to understand what might have gone wrong. It frequently takes me far too long to realize that some spaces in some days just happen to go better or worse than some other spaces. This has nothing to do with the body or the spirit. It even has little to do with the ongoing projects. It is that life itself tends to follow a wave form. It goes up and goes down. That is just its nature. It needs no reason.
It's the heat. No, it was the cold, the absence of something that became a presence itself, fibers of the countertop so frozen that their molecular structure crystallized and aligned in phase allowing the top to spit easily. Now I am framed by the blot of sun that burns in the sky, melting the crystals, allowing them to flow one into the other. The trees grow brittle and die. The grass and weeds burn away. We are left with nothing but the bright disc of sun in an empty sky, burned into less than nothing, growing black under the heat.
I'm thinking of the sweet taste of ice cream and how not so far away it is. I am trying to decide between the chocolate chip and butter pecan as my memory touches, arcs and welds itself to a time thirty years ago. It is another summer under a perhaps softer sky. You shut the shades and coast, the sun seeping in around the edges of the shade and think about the tube of sun block in the car. The world is, after all, a dangerous place. There are real dangers out there. It really is trying to kill you.
My sister's husband Fred is hollering for help. She hustles around the corner of the house with me behind. In the laundry room water is spraying everywhere. It is like walking into the shower with your clothes on. They had a new washing machine being delivered and Fred was unhooking the water line when the valve broke. He disappeared under the house to shut off the water main. I offered to replace the valve for them, but Fred didn't want the new hole in the wall. The next day a plumber showed up and cut a hole in the wall.
I have replaced the lavatory faucet in the bathroom. It is amazing how many places you have to be able to bend in to do that job. The hard part of the job is not installing the new fixture, but in getting the old one off. That is where you get the face full of rust and have to crawl into the little cabinet beneath the sink. I am just too old for this stuff. I don't bend in those places any more. The new faucet came with a new drain. I haven't installed that yet. Tomorrow will be fine.
I was cutting the grass. I had thought I'd work at it for an hour, but the sun was hotter than I had planned on. I worked for twenty minutes before I gave up. Maybe this evening I thought. Maybe instead I would work on the bathroom sink faucet and drain replacement project which was so near completion. All I need to do is connect the lever to the plug lift assembly and re-check for leaks. That and clean up the mess. The job was more difficult than anticipated, of course. It was getting the old faucet and drain off.
Big Noder fell off his bike tumbling down the hill and scattering the small rocks, scree, and cactus before him. It was not a long fall, but those of us who saw him thought, "That's gonna hurt" in unison. Most of the rocks were flattish and sharp around the edges. The bike slowly falls after him, starting at first a slow front over end as the engine quit biting and then collapsing sideways and flipping that way for a half dozen quick revolutions. Then came the longer fall for the bike. Noder didn't fall that far. God was watching him.
I'm rattled again, snakes crawling across the lawn. If I eat enough of it I won't feel my teeth cracking any more. I won't feel the weight of a continent filled all tipsy with little bungalows with snakes crawling across dried lawns, with the sun beating down on the cracked clay with quiet old women staring out large square filmy windows waiting for their husbands to come home, for their children to call, their lives to end, with flimsey curtains blowing through broken windows and hooking on shards of glass, tearing, ripping off hooks and rain sheeting through the opening.
I'm rattled again: snakes crawling across a dark red cast-iron skillet. The lawn is growing brittle, grass stemming the pain hissing and steaming as it comes off your teeth. If I eat enough of it I won't feel the pulp bursting through the enamel. I won't feel the weight of a continent filled all tipsy with little bungalows with snakes crawling out across dried lawns, with the sun beating down on cracked clay with quiet old women staring out large square filmy windows waiting for their husbands to come home, f or their children to call, their lives to end.
They have flimsy curtains blowing through broken windows and hooking on shards of glass snapping and ripping the curtains off their hooks. Rain is sheeting through the open walls bounding off the floorboards below. The eaten grass is sprouting roots clawing at the inside of my chest nesting there beneath the skin in circles that define vital organs, unfolding unlatching, exploring new uninhabited reaches. It's not clear how much grass I can eat how many words I can paint before evening comes before the sun dies before the wind blows the dust through the window the pieces of curtain away.
Before the glass is worn down to dust these things happen and happen again. My toes are curling slipping into the mules of the old woman at the window. I'm finding my skin seeping into her skin, my jaw slack, my eyes fixed on a focus that only peripherally takes in the snakes the points of broken glass the Bible on the coffee table pages rippling in the wind while the Holy Script rises in a calm vapor spreading wings like an angel. WHAT mythical character do you want to be little girl? God! God, I want to be God.
Well, I look at it. I consider the Spirit yanked from the yellowed pages. Now days people spend more on their dogs than their religion and some would complain that I do not give dogs their due. I am thinking back into that yard back behind the faded paint and dented siding. I am touching the quivering heart, fingers slipping into muscle and into the quiet soul. But the sun going down is a temporary thing and the evening winds cool the day the baked roof the insides of our skulls. The Spirit coats and soothes reminding us to forget.
Did you go play with the grandchild? no. did she? I don't think so ok daughter's dog was sick ah I cooked again. need to put the stuff away people spend more time, money, and ..well attention on dogs these days don't they? not sure about all this cooking, but I am still losing weight yes, I have very bad feelings about vet bills when so many humans don't get medical care doesn't seem right it is what we do yes it is I went cycling this afternoon fortunately I make my anthropomorphic projections on less expensive things than dogs
I have a leg cramp ouch It is not the usual thing though they used to hang people who said there was no god. All the time. what is this pursuant to? well, i suppose they do similar things still uh, leg cramps? but this is in the front of my thigh, not the usual inner thigh. It is very strange. i do not think anyone will be hung in this particular case do you really understand what you are talking about? actually, yes Understand How you got to the hanging? i understand my line of thinking please tell me
I envisioned a sick woman at home in a hospital bed sigh I thought of terminally ill people at home I thought of death and the various ways of thinking of death the inner thigh cramps are definitely an electrolyte problems drink some gator aid I thought of beliefs in God and an after-life vs. other beliefs I had other thoughts I thought about a book I was reading where people were being hung for being witches I took some potassium I remembered that people were also condemned for heresy to be on the safe side apostasy many were hung
are you feeling any better? I am using the evil to write a poem ah while I listen to weird music shall I leave you to work on it? I have a rough draft I am ok I wish I had a hammam one of those domed middle eastern marble baths with fountains and massage tables oh yes little pools at least that all marble the one-per center's of their time you could use it too *s* mostly they were public baths men would come at certain times, women others lots of gossip with the bathing mutually agreed upon times
we have to make decisions about where to get our pleasure a small pain at the back of my head a temporary moment of disorientation i am quite alright you know you are fairly human which comes with some pain so say the..happyiests? pfft I try to be compassionate god knows; there is enough in all of us to squeeze compassion from a stone compassion from a stone I found a necklace I had lost which made me happy I worked very hard on it tiny little beads, faceted emeralds, rubies, and sapphires almost needed a microscope to string it
Did you go to play with the grandchild? No how could I? He is on the other side of the world. I meant the other grandchild. The available one. That is a brain-tilting concept. What is available vs. what is wanted. Is there a strong correlation between what is not available and what we want? I don't think so. I could be wrong. I have been often accused of simplistic optimistic thinking. My daughter's dog was sick again. She had to take it to the veterinarian. Are we still allowed to say veterinarian, or do we call them doctors now?
They used to hang people who said there was no god. All the time they hung these people. What is this pursuant to? Well, I suppose they do similar things still. Leg cramps I am used to leg cramps, but this is in the front of my thigh, not the usual inner thigh. It is very strange. I do not think anyone will be hung in this particular case. Do you really understand what you are talking about? Actually, yes, I do You understand How you got to the hanging? Yes, I understand my line of thinking. Please tell me.
I thought of terminally ill people. I thought of death of the various ways of thinking of death. The thigh cramps are definitely an electrolyte problem. Drink some gator aid. I thought of beliefs in God and an after-life vs. other beliefs. I thought about a book I was reading where people were hung for being witches. I took some potassium. I remembered that people were also condemned for heresy. to be on the safe side. Apostasy. Ecstasy? No dear. Michelangelo. Agony. you are free associating. Well it is obviously not free. I am about to be taxed for it
I wish I had a hammam, one of those domed middle eastern marble baths with fountains and massage tables. Oh yes, little pools. At least that. All marble. The one-per center's of their time. You could use it too. Mostly they were public baths. Men would come at certain times, women others. Lots of gossip with the bathing. Mutually agreed upon times. Since people didn't have bathing facilities at home. We have to make decisions about where to get our pleasure. A small pain at the back of my head. A temporary moment of disorientation. I'm quite alright you know.
I recently found a necklace I had lost. At one time the necklace had made me very happy. I worked very hard on it, tiny little beads, faceted emeralds, rubies and sapphires. I almost needed a microscope to string it. You made it yourself. Yes, I designed and made it. You know I will probably take our conversation and make a poem out of it. I will accumulate beads of thought over time and string them together. So you should be careful of what you say. I had put it away somewhere safe. So the strands would not get tangled.
There is a woman in Petaluma who used to be very much into making necklaces. I want to take my necklace to show her. I am trying to get her interested in making jewelry again. I wonder why she lost interest. She says she has a whole spare bedroom of beads, she hasn't done anything with them in ten years. I have sequential hobbies like that. But a room of beads. It would be good if she could get back into it, or at least sell them. Sell the beads Bobbie. She could use both the money and the space.
I have everything. everything but plastic. I don't have plastic Never enough plastic. o, I won't use plastic. In plastic we trust. All others must pay beads Plastic is flexible, versatile. Why can't you be like that? You have five? six? looms? Why is it always looms? We should all be plastic. Trying to weave our lives together. I am hanging on a loom, bloody arms and legs still stapled to the frame of the loom. Lovely textured strands of yarn and beads. Hemmed in by warp and woof. Weaving you to the loom. Performance art? Here, have some plastic.
I had thought to carve a dark silhouette out of sleep. I thought the shape would fall naturally to the floor. It did not seem to be difficult either natural or unnatural. I prepared the knife, even considered the scissors, but thought the stuff of sleep perhaps too complex for scissors. And I began to cut following the line as carefully as an eight-year-old taught to color only inside the lines. The cut went deep, far deeper than I had expect ed and I opened it peering into a new shadow land leaning over the portal now preparing to dance.
I am sure that sometimes there is a need to write, or journal or spew in a safe place, a place where no one really sees your thoughts and this does seem contrary to the entire enterprise of writing which seems to be about communicating, one to another. Perhaps we need to allow communicating, one to oneself. Would this be one of Maslow's needs? Perhaps it is for some and not for others. There is a gene that requires this activity, this hand-eye review of its own thoughts so that it may better understand them, an activity analogous to dreaming.
Ouch! The side of my head hurts so badly. Sometimes it does and sometimes it does not and when it does it is as if my world turns to pain. They ask for a number from one to ten with ten being the worst pain you have ever felt and all I can say is THIS! THIS is the worst pain I have ever felt. It is my jaw, my teeth, my ear, and my head. Sometimes it is the whole left side of my body. The dentist can find no problem. The doctor can find nothing. So it remains.
The thunder is still beating. They say to eat something and then wait twenty minutes. I close my eyes while waiting and I see that the rain has stopped. A plank from here to there is still wet from the rain and dripping into the water below. A small dog trots across it, almost strutting. He has one of those little red collars that appear to have been designed for a cat. How did they get it around his neck? Did they chain two of them together? He is paused now in mid step. A gull is frozen above him.
It is a day like any other, and while there have been several times when I had in mind exactly what I was going to say here, I find it has escaped me now. Escaped also is the will to move to another venue where I might be given a view other than the one I always see when writing here. It seems I will have to fall back on obscure pronouncements and irrelevant references to pound out the one hundred words. But then my phone rings and life is off again, albeit limping heavily on the good right leg.
The afternoon bike ride was good. A man passed me on roller blades and he passed me again about a mile later. Now it is 8.5 miles around the lake. He passed me third time a bit later. He was getting off onto the road, doubling back and coming by again. I have been "lapped" this way by others on this track. I assume that they like going down certain hills or that they favor certain curves or long straight-aways. It is weird the first couple times it happens because you wonder how they got around the lake so quickly.
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